Look Again
by wolfshalom
Summary: What would happen if Mrs. Hudson were a serial killer and targeted Sherlock. rated T for safety.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys, decided ****to try my hand at a suspense/mystery type story. Think you can figure it out? I look forward to hearing your ideas as to who you think the killer is and any criticisms/questions you may have. Hope you like it and don't forget to review. Bear in mind that I have nothing against Mrs. Hudson, but I needed someone to find the body and it couldn't be Sherlock or John so...yeah. Well, enjoy :)**

**Chapter 1**

It had started simply enough.

Poor Mrs. Hudson had been cleaning up the flats and, innocently, had stumbled upon a body. So, naturally, hearing her screams, Sherlock bounded gleefully down the stairs and grinned at the horrendous sight as he exclaimed joyfully that it must be Christmas due to the violent crime scene laid out before him. Smiling from ear to ear, he walked into the room and allowed his pale blue eyes to deduce just what had occurred. There were two bodies, both male and in their early thirties and both clearly stabbed multiple times, and large blood splatters covering the walls and floor of the flat. There had been a struggle from one of them, the one farthest from Sherlock, but the other one had been taken by surprise and not been able to fight off the attacker before the damage had been done. By then, it had been too late. Weak and dying he could but watch as the killer turned on his friend.

But how had the killer gotten into the room? Sherlock wondered.

All this he had gotten in seconds to jolted quickly back to reality as John raced into the room after Sherlock and quickly rushed over to find a pulse and, as Sherlock suspected, found none. Quickly, the kind doctor pulled the hysterical elderly woman out of the room and comforted her while phoning Lestrade. Sherlock did nothing to help him. He stepped gingerly over the pools of red that shimmered on the floor and examined to bodies. No sign of strangulation or bruising...only stab wounds. So, the killer probably hadn't over powered him as Sherlock had originally thought. So what was the defining factor here? Speed, Sherlock thought. The killer had rushed in and stabbed him and before recovering, he was on the ground and bleeding to death beside his...friend?

No, he suffices. Brother: younger brother. Okay, so a family renting a flat: two bedroom, one bathroom, small kitchen. Their clothes indicated that they were down on their luck, not poor but far from wealthy, and the few possessions in the room were cheap and generic; so it wasn't an attack of greed or simple robbery.

No, it was an attack of passion as was evident from the brutality of the attack, but did the killer desire their deaths, or were they merely a substitute for another, more elusive prey? There were no broken windows, no forced entry. Who ever had entered had had a key. Maybe a 'concerned' family member 'paying a visit'?

An ex-girlfriend?

The one closest to the door had a tan line around his ring finger indicating a former marriage: ex-wife, then?

"You need to get here. Now." John said before describing what had transpired. It took only six minutes for the police and ambulances to get there.

"Where is he?" Lestrade demanded. "Where is Sherlock?"

John shrugged, "I don't know, outside probably. I think he's trying to figure out how the bloke got in. It's crazy, you know? One minute we're talking about Moriarty, the next Mrs. Hudson is screaming." Another shrug, "It's just weird, you know?"

**…**

Sherlock examines the exterior of the house and rocks back on his heels. Yep, definitely no forced entry...so how did the murderer manage to get a key to flat...or even hunt the brothers down? They had only lived there for a week...so how?

HOW?

**…**

The case was going no where, much to Sherlock's intense displeasure.

And then another body was found three days later.

And five days after that, three more, all with vicious lacerations and knife wounds.

What was going on? Who was killing these people and WHY?

**…**

"So, who do you think it is?" John asked Sherlock.

"I don't know yet."

"Do you think it's him?"

"Him?" Blue eyes narrow in confusion.

"Yeah, _him._ As in _Moriarty?_ Surely if he can strap bombs to random citizens with nothing in common to link them, he can hire someone to kill these people, hm?"

"Maybe." Sherlock muttered distantly and placed his fingers absently under his chin as he lay on the couch and stared blankly up at the wall, his mind going a thousand miles a minute.

"Yoohoo!" Mrs. Hudson chirps from the doorway before walking in, "What are you boys up to, hm? You solve that murder yet, Sherlock?"

"No." He growled in irritation. "Don't you have somewhere to be? Cleaning maybe? Or, better yet, not here?"

She walks back down the stairs.

"Poor, woman. Must be terrified stiff." John remarked only to receive a dramatic eye roll from Sherlock.

"She'll get over it." Sherlock states in a bored monotone voice.

"Can we not do this right now?"

"Do what?"

"You, acting like a machine."

"We've been over this _before_, John." Sherlock sighs in irritation with having to repeat himself, "_Caring_ will not help her or anyone else for that matter. Now if you'll excuse me." He hops lightly to his feet. "I must be off."

"And where, _exactly_, are you going?"

"The homeless network."

"What? Now? It is two o'clock in the morning and snowing, Sherlock! You can't just go out there alone in a storm like this!"

"Who says I'll be _alone_? You're coming with me." And with that, he dawns his scarf and walks out the door.

"I'm _not_ coming!" John shouts out to him. The door slams shut. For a minute, John stares down at his computer screen and then, with a loud groan, he throws on his shoes and darts after his friend.

"Wait up!" He yells.

**…**

To Sherlock's utter disappointment, not a single soul on the homeless network had been able to offer them any information on the killings.

"How is it even possible!" He storms.

**…**

The next day.

"Sherlock, you've got mail." John lightly tosses the letter at Sherlock's head before plopping down in his chair and searching the web for any new victims that could be linked to this serial killer.

"Hm." Sherlock's eyebrows scrunch together.

"What? What is it?"

"A poem."

"What?"

"Listen, John:

_A need for vengeance, a lake of blood;_

_Poor detective; can you escape the flood?_

_An angered widowed soul, a bloodied knife. _

_Someone has come to take your life._

_So, try to run, and try to flee,_

_But you will never, _ever_ find me._

_Four more victims will soon die:_

_Tell me, can you save their lives?_

_So, come and find me, and p__lease, try your best..._

_Because soon it'll be _your_ turn to be put to rest."_

John is struck silent. "This…this is not good."

"Really, John?" Sherlock says sarcastically, "Please, tell me what your _first_ clue was!" The detective snaps.

"It's got to be him! It's got to be Moriarty, who else could it be?"

"Explain." Sherlock mutters.

"Well, didn't his wife die recently? That would make him widowed, right? So, he's out to take revenge or…take his mind off the pain? Maybe he's started up this little game again as some sort of distraction, yeah?"

Finally, Sherlock nods in silent agreement. "You might just be right, John." But he knew, deep down in his gut that, despite John's logic, Moriarty was not to blame for this, but, if thinking he knew who the killer was put John at ease, then so be it. He'd play along, for now and wait for the killer to make a mistake.

_Hopefully_, he thought, _it would be soon. This was growing quite tedious. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**Two weeks later…**

Another body.

This one female.

She had been left at the docks and had the customary knife wounds on the upper torso, but, again, Sherlock noticed, no bruising. Like the previous victims, the throat was not cut and she wasn't rich.

Another substitute, maybe?

If so, who was the intended victim?

His piercing blue eyes narrow in thought. And a small photograph, placed carefully under a brick so that it would not float away, was put near her head: a picture of Moriarty smiling the words 'DID YOU MISS ME' written in red marker by someone who was clearly left handed.

Was John right?

Was it Moriarty?

It had been a while since they had seen any activity from the consulting criminal…perhaps he was making a comeback.

Sherlock shakes his head slightly to dismiss the thoughts and turns back to the corpse. She had long, curly, dark brown hair and worse simple but modest clothes. A pale purple blouse and black pants, both pieces easily over three years old and mended carefully each time suggesting she was unable to afford replacements. Her shoes, although scuffed and worn, had been carefully preserved.

So, she was down on her luck like the brothers and the other victims…but, as Sherlock later found out, she was also new to town. She and her fiancé had planned on buying the flat across from the brothers but, after the murder, had been less eager and went to look for lodging elsewhere.

And now she was dead, and he was missing: strange. Even stranger, the fiancé could not have killed the brothers because he had been out of the country on business and just recently came to London three days ago…so he couldn't possibly be the killer they were looking for. If Sherlock was correct, and he was seldom wrong, this woman had been murdered by the same killer as the brothers.

But _why_ had she been targeted?

All this was racing through Sherlock's brain as he paced the length of the flat over and over again, much to John's displeasure. Finally, John sighs and goes to check the mail to give Sherlock some more space, if only for a moment.

Footsteps fun frantically back up. John's heart races as he runs to Sherlock with the mail held tightly in his palms. "You've got another one, Sherlock. Another letter." John says upon reappearing at the top of staircase, his brow furrowed in worry. "Looks like the same person as before, mate." The letter vanishes from his hand in an instant as Sherlock snatches it into his own. He examines the envelope before opening: standard issue paper, simple and neat handwriting, left handed writer…was it Jim Moriarty?

"Well? What does it say?"

Sherlock sighs with irritation and opens it.

Another poem. Why poems?

**...**

_Can you see it?_

_Can you hear?_

_Dear detective, your death is drawing near._

_I'll make you pay for what you did,_

_And to burn out your heart_

_Will only be the start._

_When you find me, look again_

_Because dear detective, you'd have failed once again._

**_..._**

So, it was him. The bodies were substitutes for him. He had assumed as much before but it had been a theory concocted by coincidental evidence. But was the coincidence of finding another body and getting a note, again, in the same day? Who ever was killing these people was doing it for a reason and the reason glared up at him with every cut and puddle of blood they had found: revenge.

"That's it." John declares after reading the note. "We're getting Lestrade involved, and get the police to keep an eye on the flat. This is getting too dangerous Sherlock."

"No, John."

"No? What do you mean 'no'? Some maniac is out to get you and you're just _okay_ with that? I'm not going to stand here and watch my _best friend die_, Sherlock!"

"I'll be _fine,_ John. Do you honestly believe this is the first time I've been threatened? I've handled it before and, look, I'm still here aren't I?! We can use this to our advantage, lure the killer out."

"You mean Moriarty?"

"Quite possibly." The facts were certainly leaning that way, but it felt wrong. Moriarty was not one to hide in the shadows, he loved to gloat to take the credit, especially when dealing with Sherlock. All these corpses and all Sherlock gets from him is a picture and two threatening poems? True, Moriarty was not exactly what one would call consistent…or sane…but surely he would have threatened him in person, or at least with a phone call.

Letters? No, letters were traditionally used by Moriarty to give him clues and he got nothing out of these. But, it wouldn't be entirely out of the question for Moriarty to change up his style to make the game more interesting. The writer of the letters was definitely left handed like Jim and knew about their encounters together, bur was it him?

Or was it someone else?

"'Possibly'? So, the picture of Moriarty with the 'DID YOU MISS ME' and then, just now in the letter, 'burn out your heart', the idea of it being him just _eludes_ you? Who ELSE could it possibly be?" His voice rises into a shout.

"You okay, dearies?" Mrs. Hudson walks quickly up the stairs. "Is everything alright?"

"Everything is fine." Sherlock says quickly. He saw no reason to scare the gentle old woman needlessly, she was worried enough after discovering those bodies and about the killer returning to claim more victims. "John is just being dramatic about a case we're working on. No reason to worry." He smiles a crooked gin and she beams back at him before walking carefully back down.

His smile melts away the moment she is gone from sight and he turns to glare at John accusingly and John glares back.

"Okay, then." She shouts over her shoulder, "I'll be in my flat if you need anything." And then she's gone.

"This is dangerous, Sherlock and you know it." John says roughly as he struggled to keep his voice low. Like Sherlock, he didn't want to worry the grandmother-like lady.

"And that's exactly why we need to act quickly. If my plan works, we'll have caught him and ended this madness within the end of the week."

"And if you fail?" His voice low and defeated.

"I'll die and Moriarty will finally win."

"So you do think it is him, then?"

He nods, "Yes." And he did. Moriarty was flexible and psychotic. It would be like him to jerk the rug out from underneath them just when they finally thought they had the rules all figured out. So, why not him?

**So, it is Moriarty? Or is someone else? What do you guys think? Sorry if this chapter was a little slow, but I plan to make the next one faster paced.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Jim's brown eyes stare gleefully down at the newspaper held gently in his hands. 'A serial killer?' the headlines screamed. His mouth curls into a serpent-like smile. Oh, they had no idea. Mayhem was wild, and crazy, and got his heart pounding wildly with elation. Just wait until they saw what happened next, he thought ruefully. If they thought that this was bad, then they were in for a _really_ rude awakening.

**…**

"Hello, Sherlock." A silky voice greets the detective from the doorway.

"Moriarty." Sherlock acknowledges he continues to play his violin with his back to the door. He turns slightly and motions his bow to a seat. "Please, sit."

John and Mrs. Hudson had both gone out, leaving him alone. John to see his beloved Mary, and Mrs. Hudson had gone to the stores. Ever since John had been married he's been staying with Mary and coming by on the days he could spare from the doctor's office…and even though he was supposed to come back today, neither John nor Mrs. Hudson was due back for another couple hours.

_Well, this is just wonderful_, Sherlock thinks sarcastically.

_He's alone with a murderous and highly unstable psychopath. _

_Well, at least he wouldn't he bored_, he reasoned optimistically and smiles a little.

"Looks someone's been having a bit of fun." His guest ignores Sherlock's offer of a seat and instead walks slowly around the room and stares at the pictures of the bodies that are tacked to the walls. "Are you enjoying yourself, Sherlock?" He purrs quietly and comes to a stop inches from Sherlock's back.

Sherlock turns slowly to look at him and then moves to put his Violin away. "A challenge is always a welcome distraction from boredom, is it not? It's always enjoyable to have something that exercises the mind. So, are you having fun this little game?" His blue eyes narrow as he looks his unwanted guest up and down.

"'Game'?" Moriarty laughs. "Oh, Sherlock, is that what you think this is? No, you and I both know that this is not a game, Sherlock." The playfulness in his voice is replaced with steel as his joyful grin suddenly falls away and his eyes stab into Sherlock's. "It's revenge."

"For what?"

A light tone creeps into Moriarty's voice as he changes the topic, "You know, I'd watch my back if I were you, Sherlock. You see, London is such a dangerous place these days, and I should know, I made it that way." He smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes and he takes a step closer so that their noses are mere inches apart. "But bad things seem to happen to angels who get in the way."

Brown eyes narrow and he scowls at Sherlock as though scolding a child. A chill races down Sherlock's spine but he does not allow it show on his face.

Moriarty continues, "Sherlock, you take the clues and put them together, and everything is so…black and white." A tight condemning smile, "So, simple." He takes a step back away from the detective and leans back against the wall casually.

Sherlock does not move.

Jim stands up and straightens his suit as he walks towards the coffee table and plucks an apple into his head before saying, "But this is not what you think it is: not really. And if you aren't cautious, this time, you really will die, Sherlock. Be careful with this one and take your time." He walks to the doorway and looks over his shoulder at him. "Wouldn't want you to get hurt, now would we?"

He leaves.

**…**

Sherlock walks quietly through the ally in the darkness. If he was alone he could lure the killer out and tempt them to attack him. John would not be happy with it, but what the doctor didn't know couldn't possibly hurt him, right? Besides, it wasn't the first time Sherlock had done this, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. His phone vibrates.

A text from Mycroft: _Heard about the case._ _Any new developments?_

_I'M FINE! _Sherlock texts back. _LEAVE ME ALONE!_

_Always so dramatic. Goodbye, brother mine._

He ignores the last text and puts his phone back into his pocket with a small smile upon his face. He'd never show it, let alone admit it, but it was nice sometimes to know that Mycroft cared about him. But enough about him, where was the killer? His blue eyes stare into the darkness. He had thought for sure that—!

And then everything goes black for a moment as something hard and solid slams into the back of his head.

He moans and tries to sit up, but to no avail. His body feels heavy like cement and, for some reason, he is unable to lift up his head. Blood slowly pools from the wound in his head, and he senses, rather than sees his attacking watching his struggles...but the person is standing in the shadows, cloaking themselves in the darkness so that he is unable to figure out their identity. Then a car's golden headlights blanket his body as his consciousness quickly slinks away.

**…**

His head is pounding and the room swims dizzily in front of him, indicating that he been drugged. Where was he? He blinks carefully and groans at the pain slicing through his skull. He was a dark room—No, his brain supplies: it was a _cell _not a_ room_—with a single light bulb flickering weakly overhead. His arms are shackled to the wall above him and his feet chained to the ground. A cold draft slices through him and he raises his head weakly before closing his eyes tightly against the pain.

"Oh, Sherlock." He hears and his eyes snap open to reveal a second person also locked in this depressing tomb. "Are you okay?" A gentle hand lands lightly on his cheek.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

**Don't worry: the killer will be revealed in the next chapter. And poor Mrs. Hudson **:( **. I hated putting her in the cell with Sherlock, but I figured, why not? Make things more interesting, anyway. **

**So, is it Moriarty? What do you think?**

**Just don't hate me when this story is over. :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Here it is: the last and final chapter. Do you have it all figured out, or have I stumped you? Guess we'll find out.**

**Chapter 4**

"Mrs. Hudson?" He repeats, "Are you alright?" The hand on his cheek vanishes and he shivers as the warmth of her skin is replaced with the cold.

"You really haven't caught on, have you, dearie?" She asks, her voice sad and disappointed. "You really haven't figured it out? Have you?"

"Figured what out?" His wind churns violently as he tries to figure out the meaning to her words, but the drug is still affecting him and fogs up his mind.

"That it was me, Sherlock." Her eyes look into his. "That I killed them."

What? No! That can't be right, it can't!

This was the woman who sat by his bedside when he was overcome with fever and broke into sobs when she found out that he had gotten back on 'the sauce,' as Mycroft had so eloquently put it. This was the woman who made him biscuits and brought him tea in the morning.

And buoyed his spirits when he was drowning in boredom by telling him that some new, exiting case was sure to show up.

Had this been a sign?

A silent warning?

She had said that he was the popular candidate for murder at John's wedding...another harbinger of her true character?

But Mrs. Hudson? A murderer?

No! It's a trick! It has to be! It has Moriarty written all over it! He had something in her ear, was feeding her the words, just like the case with the bombings! This was wrong! This was NOT right! It was NOT MRS. HUDSON!

So, why then, was she holding a knife?

Why then, did she have a feral look to her eyes that had now turned cold and cruel-the look of a killer.

_Look again, _that stupid note had said.

LOOK.

AGAIN.

It was a warning. It didn't mean _look at_ Moriarty, it meant look _around him!_ Who found the first bodies? Who crept creeping up the stairs to see how the investigation was going and pretending to be worried about them? And now that he thought about it, on the last corpse there had been faint traces of Mrs. Hudson's perfume had lingered on the scene…but he had subconsciously ignored the fact, thinking it irrelevant. In fact, that cursed perfume had been there, staring him in the face on every murder so far on this case! Why did he have to ignore it!

And now he was going to pay. With his life. She crept closer, the blade shining evilly as she studied him in the dim lighting. Again he shivered but this time from fear of the woman he had once thought of as a motherly figure. A protector. Someone who loved and cared about him.

But he had been wrong.

All that kindness, all those gentle loving smiles were a mask to hide the monster that lurked just beneath the skin. And he, the brightest detective in the world, had been unable to see it. How could he allow himself to be stupid? So naive? So trusting!

"Why?" He says suddenly. "Why did you do did it? Why did you kill them? And why me? What have I ever done to you?"

She pauses in her studying of him and cocks her head to the side curiously, "Remember when I said that my husband was a drugs dealer?" He nods, ignoring the pain that pulses through his head with every movement, "Well he was, but was also a serial killer." She smiles weakly. "It was a joint effort, I'm afraid. And then you insured his execution."

"So, revenge on sentencing and ensuring the death of Mr. Hudson?"

"Yes."

She raises the knife suddenly and he flinches in anticipation of feeling the blade slice into his skin and the pain that will ignite upon the impact. Then the door is forced upon and Special Forces storm the room. A green gas fills the air and Mrs. Hudson is tackled painfully to the ground. Sherlock twists his head to the side in an effort to keep the gas out of his lungs, but it isn't working. The people swarm around him and work at his bonds in an attempt to free him, but no one bothers to get him a gas mask. Gasping, he struggles weakly against them, but it's no use.

Once again, everything goes black.

Again.

**…**

Sherlock awakens this time a world of white and an insistent beeping: a hospital. Inwardly he shudders in distaste and forces himself to look up to take in his surrounding; he wasn't alone.

"Hello, Sherlock." Moriarty purrs. "I tried to warn you, you know. But did you listen?" He smiles. "I'll wait a few weeks or so after you get back on your feet before starting up our little game again." He goes to leave.

"Wait!" Moriarty pauses. "How did they find me? My rescuers?"

"Oh, I made a few phone calls." He shrugs, "When you die, it'll be by my hand, Sherlock. And bedsides, what's the fun of losing our star player before the second quarter?" A playful smile. "Well, I better be off. You know how it is: people to kill, banks to rob, lives to ruin." A playful smile, "Besides, it might be better for your little pet if I weren't here to rile him up, eh? I don't really see why he'd mind." He shrugs, "People get so emotional after you try to killed them; I don't really see why. Well anyway, see you around...Sherlock."

Sherlock sighs once Moriarty leaves and stares up at the wall. Sure enough, ten minutes later, John, Mary, Mycroft, Lestrade, and Molly are invading his room and looking worried. They worry over him, except for Mycroft and Lestrade, and ask him how he's feeling and such. He keeps his answers brief and glares at them and their sentiment before, one by one, they scurry off into the hallway. He'd talk with them later.

Right now, there's only one person he needs to converse with.

And even then, as briefly as possible.

"Mrs. Hudson?" He asks Mycroft after the others have left.

"Arrested and in jail, brother mine. Do be careful next time when pick out a flat. Turns out the landlady might have it out for you." He smiles tightly and puts his umbrella on his shoulder.

Sherlock glares at him and clenches in fists in anger. Mycroft walks to the door.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock shouts suddenly, a smile creeping onto his face.

"Yes?" His brother inquires, wondering what made his little brother happy after such emotional devastation and betrayal.

"Good luck on the diet. I'll send a few hundred cakes in mail." Mycroft's eyes narrow and he quickly stomps out of the room. _Well, at least he's feeling better,_ the older Holmes thinks.

**…**

They allow him to leave the hospital that same day, and, with a heavy heart, he walks slowly into 221B. How could he have rented a flat from a murderer and never known it. Well, he thinks, this is one case that is definitely _not_ going to be blogged about.

**I have nothing against Mrs. Hudson and she is, in fact, one of my favorite characters. I figured it would be humorous in a sarcastic/ironic sense if she were to turn out to be this awful person because of how awesome and kind she is on the show. I love her character like a grandmother and dislike none of the characters of Sherlock (except Irene Adler and Charles Magnusen). **

**I haven't seen this type of story done yet with someone taking Mrs. Hudson as a villain an figured why not? **

**It'd be unique and creative.**

**So, sorry if I've angered/saddened anyone. It wasn't my intention, but I had this idea and had to get it out of my head...**


End file.
